


calling

by aces



Category: House
Genre: POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You call Wilson because you know he will come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calling

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place soon after "Three Stories" (first season finale).

You call Wilson. You call Wilson because you know he will come.

*

Your walls are bare and your floors are full. Wilson comments on this, sometimes, when he kicks a pile of magazines away so he doesn't trip on his way to the couch (the couch is always clear, which can't always be said of the easy chair, but then Wilson never sits on the easy chair). He does this when he wants to be irritating, when you have irritated him.

Wilson pries. Wilson is no master diagnostician, but he knows you better than he knows his own wives, and Wilson can be as blunt as you when he wants to know what the hell is going on.

Sometimes, Wilson knows when not to be curious.

You call Wilson because you know he will come.

*

Wilson does not speak when you open the door at his knock. He doesn't even look at you, just shoulders past and kicks a pile of newspapers out of the way as he heads for the couch.

Your walls are bare, but your floors are full, and Wilson makes no comments. Instead he shrugs out of his coat, kicks off his shoes, and grabs the remote.

"Are you gonna get the beer or not?" he asks as he channel-surfs, brown eyes reflecting flickering, too-fast images.

You nod to yourself once, confirming something internally, and head for the kitchen.

Wilson always comes.

*

Some ribald comments about the late-night infomercials, some debate about the reality of Ruby's breasts down in the morgue (and some even _more_ ribald comments about the corpses), and no questions about Julie or Stacey.

Wilson has done everything for you, you reflect as he takes another drink of his beer and smirks at the television screen. Everything except make decisions about your leg for you.

But then, if he did try to make decisions about your leg for you, he'd probably be just as sneaky about it as Stacey.

She always accepted Wilson, the way Wilson's wives never accept you. There might be something significant in that, if you were attempting to categorize the symptoms of someone sick, but there's no one sick here.

Sure, you're an addict and Wilson's as screwed-up as they come, but there's no one actually sick here.

Some have said the friendship between you and Wilson is pretty sick and amazing, but you have never questioned it. There has never been any need to question it.

You always call Wilson, because you know he will always come.

*

"Well, I can't go home _now_," Wilson sighs, glancing at the clock and then at the small tottering pile of beer bottles on the coffee table. "Julie would kill me if I didn't kill myself on the way home."

This is what you expected, because this is what always happens, and you'd already dug up a fairly clean blanket and an extra pillow, right after you'd called him (you hadn't said to come over, you'd just said "hello" and he'd said "Be right there" and it was as near effortless as dry-swallowing a little white pill).

"Terrible drunk," you scold him, as you raise yourself stiffly with your cane (Wilson had picked it up and dropped it in your lap during some trip to the kitchen for more beer). "Think of the little children. Some role model _you_ are."

"Didn't you know how thoroughly disreputable I am, simply by hanging out with you?" Wilson retorts as you walked into the bedroom for the blanket and pillow. "Role modeling goes _right_ out the window the instant your name is mentioned."

"I told you I was good for something," you answer, coming back into the living room.

"Diagnosing obscure diseases for ex-girlfriend's new husbands and ensuring I never have to worry about what other people think of me because they already think the worst," Wilson confirms, looking up at you as he accepts the bedding. You feel your mouth tighten, but you manage not to say anything, and this is enough for him to know to say no more, and you sprawl into the easy chair again. He watches you.

"You should sleep," you say, because the silence is beginning to irritate you.

"So should you," he counters, and he's still watching you. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm a thoroughly miserable bastard," you answer. "Of course I'm going to be okay."

You make yourself stand up and go to the bedroom. He doesn't stop you.

Wilson always comes, and sometimes he knows better than to pry.

*

Wilson is sleeping on your couch, and you lie in your bed, and you think that maybe you've gotten the sweeter end of this deal between you and him.

For one thing, you've always got home territory. If he needs a night of beer and remarks about breasts, you can't go to him; he _has_ to come to you.

But then, it's rare he wants a night of beer and remarks about breasts. He's usually content to wait for your next bout of neediness.

This is how you function, you think, you and Wilson. A perfect balance of beer and remarks about breasts.

Your walls are empty, but your floors are full, and Wilson always comes.


End file.
